Aftermath
by M. Night Wolfalona
Summary: The long awaited sequel to 'Overdose'. What's happened to everyone in 6 years? Will what truly matters still prevail? Read Overdose first to make sense. Please R&R. Song 'Aftermath' by Hurt. Enjoy.


**Hello. This is ****_Aftermath, _the too-long-overdue sequel to ****_Overdose, _which I'll dedicate to Revriley. That girl has stirred up my darker, older, angstier side of my old stories, and while I might find it annoying at times, it feels a bit like a release from my newer, random, stressed-out self at times. So thankies, Rev. **

**I issue a warning with this story. Shaggy IS majorly changed, and Fred & Daphne (what little we see of them) are SEVERELY OOC. You have been warned. If you flame this story, I will reply stating that it was your own bloody fault for reading this when I clearly stated at the beginning that Fred and Daphne were gonna be portrayed as evil cynical bastards, before then deleting your review because you shouldn't flame that which you already knew you were gonna flame in the first place. So there. **

**All I can say is thank God for artistic license. But here's the disclaimer.**

**DISCLAIMER: Honestly. If I did own it, do you think that any of my work, including 'Castle of Shadows' and 'Overdose' would be made into episodes? I'd be stoned and hung! So do be serious about all this, and get rid of your stones which I can already see are being soaked with gasoline. :P**

**I would say enjoy, but since none of my characters will... Well. Just hope that you found it to be satisfactory in the degree of writing quality at least. **

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_**Aftermath**_

_by _

_Wolfalona_

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The waves crashed against the rocky cliffside, the water smashing into a thousand tiny orbs of multi-colored jewels. The wind was blowing fiercely and cooly, whipping up the salty spray of the seato the highest point in the sky. A single man sat at the edge, his hands wrapped around his knees that were brought up to his chest, staring over at the endless waters, lost in his thoughts. So much had happened to him over the years... so much had changed for him, about him... Everything had changed.

He was no longer the carefree hippie child that had run so gleefully amongst a field of flowers, nor the light-hearted, joking teen that had held nothing to anyone, no matter their wrongs. The years had changed him greatly, as had those he had considered to be his friends. Only two remained now, and yet... he felt as if he didn't belong; as if he never had belonged. Not anymore.

He pulled away a strand of hair from his face, and sat for a moment staring at the lock of ebony that rested, lightly trapped, between his long and lily-pale fingers. It was long and untamed, a wild mane of black, against his ivory skin. The stranger part of it was that it was natural; his shoulder-length hair had changed to that color... afterwards.

His eyes swept the landscape, no longer the same, warm, rich chocolate gold brown. The color was still the same, but within them lingered a hidden pain that took away the once childish wonder and innocence that had made them appear so magical before. The warmth was gone now; only a lingering chill remained.

Not too far away, a small group of people waited, standing quietly as they watched the person who matter the most them. One of them was a man, aged greatly by all that had happened. His dark brown hair was streaked with silver-grey, and his older, bluer eyes were weary with worry. He had watched his son grow apart from everything that had once mattered to him, thanks to the undying selfishness that had come from two of his so-called 'friends', and it was heartbreaking to see the boy he'd cared so deeply for, and the ever-lasting innocence that had lingered in his eyes fade away so abruptly, and to watch him grow up to far too old an age in seconds was... painful.

The second of the group was a giant dog. He sat at the feet of the man next to him, his large, once comical shoulders slumped greatly. He, too, was greatly aged, and although it had been proven that he would live to be past 30 at the least, there were times when he'd wanted to end his misery, because of the pain that he'd seen his master, his best and most loyal friend, go through in the past six years. He'd been there through good times, younger times... and yet it seemed that all that had happened in those later years were only bad. He remembered fondly the years of running around, playing tag or frisbee, cooking ridiculous foods, eating Scooby Snacks... the one person who'd ever treated him as something more then a pet seemed to have disappeared forever. And yet, he still clung desperately to the hope that everything would be okay, return to normal, or better yet, wake up and find it all to be a terrible dream before heading out to the Malt Shop for milkshakes and french fries. But he knew in his heart that it would never be so. So he waited... and hoped for his master to return, even if partially, back to him.

And the final member of the group was a young woman who was, by far, the wisest beyond her years. Her hair was longer now, and her clunky glasses had been replaced with those of a finer gold-rimmed wire type. She wore darker blue and green sweaters now, more form-fitting, and black slacks and flat shoes. But she was the one who grieved most of the group for the man she so dearly loved. Once, she knew that he had loved her as dearly as she did now, but that had all changed after... it... had happened. She didn't know if he still held feelings for her, locked deep away in his lost and wandering heart. But she could only hope that he did.

A voice, carried by the wind, reached their ears, from the figure on the grassy, rocky ground of the cliffside that hung so tediously over the ocean's edge and the shore. Only a few words were discernable, but they could still make out what was being so lightly sung. It was one of the first songs that he had written in the hospital, that had started his career as a world-renown song writer, known for his poignant and heartrending melodies. Music had been his saving grace during those rough months of recovery; and were it not for that, he might've very well have died, for lack of any reason to live in his clouded eyes.

_"Somebody take me away from the darkness_

_Somebody take this from me_

_If anyone's out there_

_If anyone hears me_

_Somebody take this from me."_

It was a song entitled _Aftermath _that had been purchased by a band called Hurt, and it had been wildly popular. Those thoughts that had simply entered his mind, scraps of his pain and misery, of his fragmented soul and heart and trust and everything else, had been in high demand by anyone who was anyone. So he had begun to write.

And it had made him a household name. Not like he'd cared much about it though. Most days, he would simply float through, detached from life's cruelties, and ignorant of many of its blessings. On a few rare days, he would lock himself up, painfully reliving those illusions that had plagued him for so long; it was then that the three would rush in and hold him, comfort him, and try to tell him that it was all okay, that nothing could hurt him anymore. At first, in the beginning months of recovery of detox, it had all been in vain. He would push them away, attack them, believing them to be of the same creatures who so haunted his nightmares. But later, he had clung to then desperately, begging them to never let go, to never leave him again. And they had willing promised to do so, knowing that they never would've done so anyways. They remembered how glad they'd all been when he had woken up and remembered who they were, no longer suffering under amnesia induced by the drugs that **they **had slipped him for their own sick and twisted entertainment. They'd all gathered around him and cried with joy and relief, and he'd cried too. Those few days when he would smile at them now, and not decline their invitations to go out for a drive or a bite to eat were beautiful times; almost like it had once been. They treasured those times deeply; for it was the only time when they could still see the man they so dearly loved.

Meanwhile, as they all stood there thinking, he sat there, lost in his own world of past and present situations. The night,ares had become far less, and he could now close his eyes without too much fear of seeing what he'd seen that night.

_Eyes... so many eyes... they burned his skin... why had he been brought back? _

He could barely recall what had happened after the illusion. But from what he'd been told... it hadn't been pretty.

After he'd crashed through a mirror, the cops and an ambulance arrived, his father with them. His father had been the one to lift him from the remains of the mirror which had been used to help create the illusion of the monster that had been haunting the mansion in the first place. He'd then been placed on a stretcher and tied down, bleeding heavily from the many lacerations the glass had sliced deeply into his skin, and from a fall which had smashed up his leg and broken it through the skin in three places. It had been easy to get **them **to confess to the crime--they'd been laughing so hard at his pain and confused delirium that it had all spilled out easily, and they'd been rounded up and taken to the station. Fred had struggled a bit, but his father had landed a solid two punches in the nose and gut, and a hard kick to the... well... the point was, it had hurt him enough to shove him into the back of the cruiser. His father had then climbed into the back of the ambulance with him, and taken him to the hospital for a serious detox that would keep him incarcerated for six months in the whitest hell one would ever see.

_White... so much white... too much white... why can't there be any blue or black?... My eyes hurt... make it stop... Someone please, make it stop! It hurts, it hurts... IT HURTS!! _

Those six months had been the most painful ones of his life. The only relief came in the form of his father, Scooby Doo, and Velma.

_Velma..._

She'd done so much for him during that time. She'd kissed and wiped away his tears, held him when the nightmares became too real, brought him something to eat when the hospital only fed him through a tube... she'd been his saving grace and more. He still loved her, that he knew, but he knew that she could never care about a broken man like him. Who would want to live with, to love what he'd become? It made no sense to him why she would ever want to have something with him, start a family even with someone who could only produce children that would be hindered forever by something he'd had no control over at the time, disabled in so many ways. She deserved more then that; she was so beautiful in so many ways.

_Aftermath _had been written for her, with her in mind. It had made him famous, gotten him through college, paid the medical bills that had built up because of the medications he'd needed to keep whatever form of sanity he still had left. His father had retired comfortably and lived with him, as did Velma and Scooby. Song-writing had been his only form of comfort and solace when there was no other, besides those of the people that remained by his side. He had never told them, however, of exactly what he'd gone through that night. He had been too afraid... until now.

He would tell them of his dreams tonight, of that which had tortured him so efficiently over the past six years. Then, perhaps, some things might return to the way they were, the way they had been.

The way they were supposed to be.

_"I was beginning to think I had lost my mind_

_Fell upon it hard and fell upon my hardest times_

_But the way she lit the room at night_

_Cast the shadows to their gloom and I_

_Still dream of your perfume_

_I would do anything to be with you."_

Velma had remembered well the day of Fred Jones and Daphne Blake's separate trials.

They'd walked in with a smirk on their faces, as if they'd been proud of what they'd done to the sweet and innocent boy that had once been their supposed friend. She'd been a witness on the case, and had longed to go up with one of Samuel Chastain Rogers' guns and shoot the both of them. Neither of their parents had gotten them a lawyer; they'd been so horrified at what their "dearest" children had done, and had instead decided to use the money to help pay for Norville's hospital stay, of which his father had been most gracious. They'd each been convicted of the crime of purchasing, selling, and forcing illicit substances upon innocent people, and had each been sentenced to 35 years in prison, with a chance of parole in 25 years. And yet, they hadn't seemed to care much. They seemed to have become such different people then before; it was probably thanks to some of the drugs that had been in their own systems that had warped their minds. But she knew that deep in her heart, she could never forgive what either of them had done to the boy she loved.

It was because of them that he might never get married, or have children, or any form of life whatsoever. It was their fault that he'd had to take his college course online, that his life had become such a piece of sh-t. It was their fault... their fault... their fault...

She looked up as another part of the song drifted towards her on the wind; and in a sudden epiphany, she knew of what he thought of her. She knew that the song had been written for her. She knew everything in that one, soft, mournfully melancholy song...

She knew... and she wasn't going to leave.

Not now.

Not ever.

_"Edelweiss... angel why... comfort me_

_From so far away_

_Angel white... dream of mine... come for me_

_From so far away_

_Angel eyes... sweet love of mine... come back to me."  
_

He whispered the words on the soft sea breeze, watching them blow away to the waves below him. He tilted his head back, and looked at the sky, watching the clouds pass him by unheeded, glowing blue and purple-gold in the setting sun, before finally closing his eyes. He thought that he heard someone singing above him, finishing up his song, but he couldn't seem to quite be able to tell the difference between reality and dream anymore, not since the accidental-yet-still-purposeful overdose. He felt tears drifting slowly down his face now at the sound of the voice... it was so beautiful... he hadn't even realized he was crying until the tiny little pearls of water had started drifting down from his cheeks to the ground below him.

So beautiful...

He opened his eyes to find Velma staring down at him, through him, _into _him, and crooning the ending to his song, _her_ song ever-so-sweetly whilst caressing his face. It felt so good, he thought, so right, so perfect. And she continued to sing.

_"T__hough so far away_

_Please don't cry_

_There's still time_

_I won't change_

_So far away_

_Please don't cry,_

Norville..."

"I won't."

And they kissed.

Later that day, he walked away from everything which had plagued him for so long--the nightmares, the fears, the self-loathing, the tears--everything was left behind, thrown over the cliff to the depths of the eternal sea. He remembered being in Heaven for the sweetest moment of his life, lost in the tingling sensation of tears of happiness and joy and of rose-petals gracing his lips ever-so-softly. He knew that everything was going to be okay, somehow it would be.

He remembered embracing his father, truly, for the first time out of love, not in desperation or need or fear of the unseen monsters lurking in his head. He remembered being tackled by his lovable dog, his face covered in sloppy kisses, and his eyes perpetually shining with tears of hope. And he remembered leaving everything that had once mattered behind, so that he could really begin his life for the first time, with the woman he loved, the father he cherished, and the best friend that one could hope for.

And so the sun set as they left, signifying the end to the day and so much more, in a final, sleepy sigh, as the clarity and the peace that came with night spread across the land and those in it.

For sometimes, even in the aftermath, there is hope. There is love.

And there is a happy ending.

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**Review. Now. A good ending deserves something. Please?**

**Oh, also: I don't own Hurt or the song 'Aftermath'. That is all. **


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